The Lucretia Incident
by seriousish
Summary: A retelling of the 2009 Star Trek movie in a sex-positive, pro-woman setting, featuring a fifty percent female cast. Betaed by Nomani
1. Prologue

**_Now_**

Seven of Nine had come to understand biological urges. Processes she had once derided as inefficient now made the utmost sense to her. Love, for instance. She had once considered it a uselessly poetic way to refer to procreation, and wishing to benefit the species by passing on her objectively good genes, had entered into an ill-advised relationship with Commander Chakotay.

Despite their general compatibility, the result had been failure. Love was not mere self-propagation. It was what the Collective had supposedly striven for: unity. Putting the needs of the partnership above one's self-interest. And there was no one whose needs Seven cared for more than Kathryn Janeway's. No one else she could've loved.

Love was an irrationality. It made more sense to her than reason could account for. It simply was. As was grief.

With all her intellect, Seven could not comprehend grief. It was more like a curse out of folklore—dark magic that transformed old happiness into new pain. She sat among the refugees of Dadon V and knew she was not alone in her pain. Once more her individual happiness had been stolen by a collective.

The supernova had begun in a distant sector of Romulan space, as predicted and warned of. Space travel was restricted within a light-year of the star's death throes. An excessive safety precaution. One that had proven not to be enough.

The expellant shock wave had not died down. Feeding on the barren rock that the star had gathered over the millennia, it had instead _accelerated_ past the speed of the light the star had once produced. An asteroid field two light-years away was also consumed, matter impossibly converted to energy to feed the growing chain reaction.

At first, the Romulan Praetor and Imperial Senate had not been concerned with this threat. Space was vast, and strange phenomena were not unheard of. The scientific consensus was that this 'hypernova' would die down before too long.

Besides—it was in the Reman province.

The hypernova did not die down. Soon, it grew beyond even the most alarmist predictions. Soon, it was too much for all the Empire to handle, but defiant to the end, they promised war to any who breached Romulan space. Even to render aid.

Admiral Janeway and a few like-minded crews had defied the letter of the law to serve the spirit, as Voyager had done so many times in the past. They'd saved many lives. And lost everything.

Seven would've understood if Kathryn had placed her wife's needs above her own. This was the meaning of the ancient Terran ritual they had undertaken. But to sacrifice her own life for that of strangers—there was no logic to it. That hurt more than anything else. At the end, her wife's actions were still inexplicable to her.

Now, like the hypernova sought fuel, she cast her consciousness through the flawless memories captured by her Borg implants. It did not alleviate her suffering. Every thought of togetherness, of romance, of passion, merely served to illustrate that such moments of perfection would never be hers again.

Around her, a storm raged. Her fellow refugees cried, fearfully traded rumors, and worst of all, rejoiced in unifying with imperiled loved ones. Nothing new, not until she saw the eye of the storm.

The Romulan female would be considered aesthetically pleasing by most common standards. Her proud features were severe but becoming. However, her beauty was not the most striking aspect of her appearance. What gathered the most attention, and what was meant to, were the Rihannsu mourning tattoos covering her body and shorn scalp, even accentuating the subdermal ridge on her forehead. They were not an uncommon sight in Romulan society, especially in the wake of tragedy. But unlike the traditional markings, whose fading marked the griever's readiness to remarry, these were burnt into the skin. They would never fade and this mourning would never end.

"Mrs. Janeway," the woman Seven would come to know as Lucretia said. "You have my condolences."

"Condolences," Seven repeated dully, as if prefacing a dictionary definition. "On what occasion have 'condolences' eased a grieving party's suffering? What _use_ is it?"

"None," the Romulan admitted. "The concept exists for those who have never known loss, to make them feel better with the thought of comforting us. But the truth is that there is no comfort."

Seven nodded slowly. "We can't bring back the dead."

"I didn't say that."


	2. Chapter 1

Liera had been born for piracy. A daughter of the Orion crime syndicate and a member of the Dominant caste, she'd been raised for close-combat phaser fights and finding weak hulls to fill with photon torpedoes.

But piracy had held no interest for her. She didn't want a life of slavery, even if she was the one holding the whip. Although she'd enlisted in Starfleet, her instincts still demanded that she hunt, dominate. So she did. Just with more willing prey.

In a post-scarcity economy, novelty was the new currency. The Federation's latest craze was a nostalgic revival of Andorian mating dens. Coming in from the starlit Iowa exterior, the Warp Trail Bar was a vast, dark collection of stuttering images—tables wrapped around minibars, each with a couple, trois, or party seated—a hundred strobe lights in a space the size of a small warehouse. Having visited Andoria, Liera knew they were podlights.

Sitting at the miniature bar, you ordered your drink and the AI dutifully doled it out to you via a pneumatic system not unlike the cash carriers of the twentieth century. As long as you were under the light, it was steady, but through a trick of physics, if you stepped away, the people it lit flickered and fluttered like ghosts. Giving each group of friends a measure of privacy. Alcohol and the Warp Trail Bar's catering to those who lacked inhibition did the rest. Already, Liera could see some couplings going on along the corners of the establishment. The tables were ingeniously built to double as circular sofas. It was all in how you laid.

Generally speaking, Liera didn't do threesomes, let alone anything more. Not without another Orion on hand. It was a numbers game. Call her racist, but Orions were the only species who _got _sex—even Deltans shaved their heads and swore vows of chastity. Two Orions stacked up against any number of other species was good odds. But on her own, Liera would not be the odd woman out, the exotic interloper in some human party.

So she was on the hunt. She would find someone else's mate, unsatisfied, and him or her what they were missing. And Liera thought she'd spotted a good prospect. In the strobing light of one table, two Terrans were arguing their way through a flirtation. Conventionally enough, a heterosexual pairing. The male was big, blond: charming and witty and dangerous and rebellious, or at least going to great pains to seem like all four.

The female was, somewhat unusually for the region, pure-blooded African right down to her Swahili accent and Mpingo wood-carved earrings. Slim, tall, well-built, serenely casual in her dignity, and conveying both annoyance and appreciation for the innuendo the boy was lavishing on her. Besides which, her bearing was overtly Starfleet. A trainee out for Drydock Week, much like Liera. It was a combination Liera was intimately familiar with. She'd top from the bottom, but she would bottom.

Liera sat down at the opposite end of the table, ordering herself a drink with exaggerated disinterest. The woman's gaze flickered to her, but found its way back to her companion's smile. That was alright. Liera could wait. She'd have her opening soon enough.

* * *

James T. Kirk hated birthdays.

Not other people's birthdays. Those were great. They tended to involve drinking and nudity and cake. Not that his birthdays didn't—his _life _tended to involve those things, even if he had to buy the cake himself. But on the anniversary of his birth, no one really _cared_ that he'd made it through three hundred and sixty-five consecutive days on Earth, in _Iowa. _All they cared about was the Kelvin.

Just that morning, the TV at county lock-up had been tuned to a boisterous Tellurite who couldn't stop yammering about how the Federation's weakness in response to the Kelvin's destruction has led to the current Klingon crisis. By the time he'd been processed out of the grand theft auto charge—he'd brought the car _back, _after all—he'd already had his fill of solemn remembrance.

Then he'd called Sammy on Earth Colony II. It hadn't been a long conversation. Sammy remembered their father. He didn't.

He'd paid his mother a visit, just to be polite, but she was a true Kirk. Wouldn't let anyone see her bleed. He cut out quick and promised himself he'd make it up to her later.

Now he wanted to get drunk and wake up somewhere he wouldn't remember.

It was Drydock Week for Starfleet Academy. For one week, trainees were scattered to shipyards across the planet to gain an appreciation for the labor and ingenuity that went into building, repairing, and maintaining a starship. Truthfully, it was just an excuse for the trainees to do just what they were doing: get some fresh air, take in some new sights, and enjoy themselves far from the watchful eye of Commodore Rand.

Iowa boasted a primary hull construction facility, where starship superstructures would be completed at leisure before the state's massive anti-grav lift sent it into orbit for furnishing at Spacedock. The nightlife catered to both the intellectual architects who oversaw production and the roughneck engineers who put it together beam by beam. The Warp Trail Bar was decidedly for the latter, except for the classical music it played—Kei$ha. You didn't get many spit-and-polish 'fleeters there, with a few happy exceptions.

He'd gotten far enough with her to be pretty sure he wasn't annoying her. Kirk wasn't the kind to chat a girl up past the point of no return. Life was too short and he had a good ear for when he rubbed a girl the wrong way, at which point he was a ghost. Their loss. But he'd gotten her name—Uhura_—_and moreover, she was playing coy enough with it that he could see this going somewhere. _Uhura _definitely didn't strike him as the type to play with her food.

"Listen up, bright-eyes," she told him in no uncertain terms, which seemed like a trend with her. "I'm really liking the atmosphere here and I haven't even begun to drink, so if you want to take _me _home, you'd better have something better in your quiver than Fifty Sure-Fire Lines To Pick Up Bitches."

"Well, I do, but even in the future, Iowa frowns on waving it around in public."

Her eyes trended downward, looked back up at him significantly. "I won't tell if you won't."

And she smiled at him. A challenge.

He thrived on challenges. "You wanna see what I got?"

"I wanna see if you've _got _anything."

"So that's a yes?"

"It's a yes if you want it to be—" she took a cool sip of her Slusho, "a no if you wanna pussy out."

"It's just that it takes a while to whip this all out. Hate to do it for nothing."

"Oh, if it's half what you say it is…" Uhura leaned forward, giving him a look down her blouse. Her breasts were as well-formed as the rest of her. "It won't be for nothing."

Well, they didn't call it an Andorian mating den because people plugged in electrical components there. Kirk leaned back in his chair, parted his leather jacket, ran a hand briskly down his T-shirt-covered midsection, unsnapped his belt with it, then pinched the clasp of his zipper. He slowed way down as he unzipped, jutting his hips out as he did so. His cock surged into his palm as soon as it was freed, like a pointer dog toward game, vibrating out of his boxers and vintage jeans. A slab of meat you'd need a butcher to circumcise, with a dark vein throbbing on the left side. He was semi-hard, heavy cockhead swaying down at an angle and a pearl of precum hanging off the tip like a decoration.

Uhura was impressed, he could tell even through her Starfleet-issue poker face. But she'd die before admitting to him that she was looking for a big cock and a guy who knew how to use it. "I dated a Naussican once," she said, sipping on another one of her drinks through a straw. "It'll take more than that to impress me."

Kirk rolled his neck good-naturedly. "I'm a grower, not a shower."

"So grow."

"Give me something to grow on."

Uhura considered it for a moment, her lips' seal on her drinking straw becoming very suggestive after a few seconds. Then she turned in her chair so she was at an angle to him, crossed her legs, and pulled her skirt up the flank of her thigh. He could see just the curve of her ass now—the waistband of her panties, even. And he'd always thought Starfleet chicks didn't wear those under their uniforms. Chalk zero up for urban legends.

Maybe she took 'em off on duty.

The thought inspired Kirk as he folded his hand 'round the base of his cock and slowly, like he was modeling it for her, skimmed his fist over the thick shaft to the purpling helmet. When he pulled back, his cockhead flared out of his grip like a photon torpedo being loaded, and throbbing about as hard.

Jim wasn't much for jerking off, finding it didn't offer enough relief from boredom for the time it ate up, but it felt a hell of a lot better with a beautiful woman watching. Her eyes ate him up as he tightened his grip, pumped harder. He didn't think she'd let him waste a cumshot on the floor of an Andorian bar. But hell, if he did, at least it'd be an exciting new low. Hard to find those in Iowa.

"Hey, how about you show a little respect?" The voice was husky, a smoker's voice, as they'd say before people stopped smoking. Wasn't cool anymore once it didn't kill you.

Kirk looked over to find an Orion—two meters tall, so a member of the Dominant class. Too bad. Orion Animal Women were more fun. But she didn't look like too much of a drag. Dark hair, beehive hairdo—aliens mining Earth's past for fashion as much as humans looked to aliens. And a body that seemed genetically incapable of quitting. Breasts even bigger than Uhura's.

He almost felt bad he hadn't seen her first. If she didn't scare him a little, he'd be turned on. What the hell. Life was short. You never knew when a bunch of rogue Romulans in an advanced warship were going to drop through a lightning storm in space and wreck your day.

He eyed her, giving his manhood a last pump for good measure, and gripped his Budweiser Classic with his free hand. "Problem?"

"Moment of silence for the Kelvin," she said, jerking her hand to the silently prattling TV at the main bar. Background noise and something to look at while your date was in the bathroom, but now the music had died down and it was solemnly listing the ranks of the deceased.

"Shit," Uhura said, jerking her skirt back into position.

Kirk rolled his eyes. "You know, I think I've shown enough respect for the Kelvin, _thanks. _Go be a white knight somewhere else."

"I'm green," she said simply.

"Noticed. Bar isn't that dark."

"Too bad," she said, glancing down at his cock with clear inference. "I heard mushrooms like the dark."

Smirking to himself, he zipped up and stood. "Hate to tell you this, but you're throwing off my groove here. Now, there's pretty much three things I do well, and I try to do at least two of 'em a day."

"I hope one of them is fighting," the Orion said.

"Liera, _enough_," Uhura ordered.

The Orion was smiling at Kirk as their minds raced to exactly the same place. "You afraid to hit a lady?"

"You a lady?"

"Guys, it's a moment of _silence_—" Uhura began, just as the lights dipped and the music started up again.

Kirk and Liera swung at the same time.

* * *

Kirk came to about an hour later. The bartender was sweeping up, the tables folded up and his automop dispensing with the litter on the floor in one swipe. Another few seconds and he'd be done. Kirk straightened painfully, feeling a half-dozen bruises dotting his skin, sure to make for a fun shower later. He also couldn't breathe through his nose, though fortunately that just seemed to be due to the wads of napkin someone had shoved up it. It'd been a good fight. The only difference between a good fight and a great fight being: a great fight he _won._

"Green girl leave?" he asked the bartender. With the drink distribution automated, his real job was mixing up the most exotic of orders and keeping track of things like that.

"Yeah," the bartender answered, in passable English for a Berellian.

"Other girl leave with her?"

"No."

"Then I'm claiming this one as a moral victory."

"Walked off when you had the green girl in a headlock. Said you were both mudder—modder—" His triple tongues continued tripping on the unusual word.

Kirk waved him off. "I get the idea." Digging into his pocket, he came up with the keys to his motorcycle. A guy like him shouldn't be caught dead staying late at his own birthday party.

"You okay to drive?" the bartender asked as he limped for the door.

"Oh yeah. Right as rain."

* * *

The last time Kirk had driven this angry, he'd crashed a 1966 Corvette down a quarry.

His helmet's nightvision gobbled up the road ahead of him. It would've highlighted any vehicles or obstructions for him to avoid, but the road was clear. People had better things to do than drive around the backroads of Iowa in the middle of the night. Jobs to go to, families to raise, even just people to sleep next to.

Kirk drove faster. He didn't care where he was going. He just needed to get there sooner.

Post-scarcity economy. People took jobs because they wanted to, not because they needed to. Jobs too odious for humans were now for the most part done by automatics. He should know. He'd done just about everything except for that.

People saw his test scores, his arrest record, they hired him because they thought they could give him some stability, bring out the genius prodigy just hiding behind all that unfashionable rebelliousness. Never worked. He couldn't be satisfied providing diners "a wonderful eating experience" or "peacefully resolving high-risk situations" or "contemplating new facets of human existence." Whatever he was meant for, it wasn't in the Yellow Pages.

He'd even tried playing around with that experimental Holodeck technology all the geeks were buzzing around, but all he'd ended up with was a simulation of the Kelvin's destruction. Clichéd.

It was almost a relief when he took a turn too fast and lost control of the bike. At least he knew where he was going.

* * *

Kirk came to in a Starfleet-issue shack, the kind of prefab living space that resisted personalization the way water put out fire. He'd bedded enough cadets to know that Academy types tended to get put in here while traveling, if they didn't spring for a hotel. But he also knew enough about Starfleet hierarchy—benefits of growing up in a military family—to know the woman he was with was no trainee.

She wore a flag officer uniform, dark grey pants, white and gray flared jacket, high collar. Commodore rank insignia on her epaulets and sleeve stripes. More importantly, to him at least, she was slim and beautiful, Nile Valley ancestry, one of those women who looked the same between age twenty and age fifty. Though he doubted she was closer to twenty. Imagine, a twenty-something having their own command.

When she spoke, it confirmed the impression he had of her being one of those officers with a glacier for a personality. "Eudokia Rand, Commodore of Starfleet Academy."

"I didn't ask."

"You wondered."

"No, I didn't. Number One, right? Pike's first officer." He'd seen some of the holo-reenactments, although actresses couldn't capture One's distinct lack of artifice. He wondered just how much woman there was under the icy façade.

Her eyes flickered with annoyance and Kirk cursed himself for reducing her to her time on Pike's bridge crew. It was more romantic, taking a starship into deep space, but he'd chatted up enough cadets to know she'd done good work as head of the Academy. Gossip had her in the sights of a promotion, not that he cared. He just knew a lot about Starfleet, was all.

She decided to test him rather than be irritated. "You know why I'm called that."

Even from the cot he was lying in, letting an autodoc progressively zap his stripped body with a dermal regenerator, he could see her-oh, yeah, he was naked. Must've wiped out harder than he'd thought not to notice. Number One had draped the cot's blanket over him to make him comfortable, the autodoc's laser being able to pass right through the thin sheet.

Her hair was cut close-cropped and spiky, not interfering with the neural implant at the crown of her head. Kirk could spot it in a nearby mirror; probably how she was running the autodoc without touching it. Her eyes were pale and slightly refractory, while her voice was just slightly chilled, like a song in the Autotune genre. An Augmented Human, he thought. From the Illyrian colony world, whose inhabitants had striven to form a utopian society through cybernetic augmentation and, some said, illegal genetic manipulation. The entire society was ranked during childhood, and Rand had been selected as the foremost intellect of her generation. Hence; Number One.

Made him feel bad for whoever was seven hundred and eighteen.

He said as much, though he left out the snark. She hummed appreciably and checked on the autodoc's process. "You're lucky I was driving by with an emergency surgical kit in the car."

"I would've walked it off."

"A broken neck?" she asked archly.

"I'm fine. Thanks for the help. Where's my clothes? Where _are we_?"

Her lips pursed. "Iowa shipyards. I'm checking in on my new command. It's coming along quite nicely." She nodded toward the window.

Kirk looked out. Before him was the Starfleet construction yard he'd passed a dozen times, but never regarded. Just part of the landscape. But now he looked at it, really _looked. _It wasn't just a shipyard anymore. Since the last time he'd paid it any mind, the skeletal frame of an actual starship had formed under its arclights. Majestic, elegant, even though it was unfinished—promising, though raw and unformed.

He could sympathize. Though at least a starship had a blueprint.

"Nice ride," he said, off-the-cuff.

She gave him a calculated look. "Nice birthday."

The autodoc beeped and Kirk rotated his arm, offering a new bruise for it to suture. "I've had worse."

"Your uncle. Yes, it's in your file. Still on parole?"

_Him or me? _Kirk almost asked. Instead, "you read my file?"

She tapped her neural implant. "Obviously. It must be hard, growing up in the shadow of that."

"Like having everyone expect so much from you that your _name _is Number One?"

She inclined her head slightly.

"Look, I appreciate you scraping me off the sidewalk, but you mind telling me why you didn't just drop my ass at a hospital? What is it, you lookin' to start a book club?"

"A starship crew, actually." She looked out the window again, putting her back to him. Normally he would've minded, but it was a nice back. "When the Enterprise is completed, it will be assigned the Academy's graduate class as a training crew and put on a shakedown cruise. Nothing major: patrols, training exercises, escorts. But those who serve aboard her will be able to write their own ticket. The Enterprise tends to see her share of scrapes."

"Alright, I'll do it." He grinned. "I'll be captain."

She didn't return his smile. Anymore rejection tonight and he'd have to start trying his luck with men.

"I run a tight ship. The Academy is a well-oiled machine. It takes those with a predisposition for fleet duty and makes them competent officers, just like those they're joining. They—we—are admirable. Respectable. But overly disciplined. One thing I learned from serving under Captain Pike. Sometimes what the situation calls for is an outlier. Something whose nature is to look before he leaps, gamble, _make mistakes. _Otherwise, we might as well not be out there. We're still just running simulations, following regulations. Trying for good grades."

He saw where she was going with this. "You must be _way_ down on your recruitment quota."

"Two Starfleet vessels have been fired on by the Klingons in the last month, we've lost contact with a merchant marine ship, the Romulans are rattling sabers across the Neutral Zone—there may come a time when we need someone to throw the first punch. To stand up for the Federation instead of falling back at every opportunity. From your file, your aggression quotient is nearly off the chart; and you're also the only genius repeat offender in the Midwest."

Kirk sighed: his wounds were feeling better, but now he felt a headache coming on. "Maybe I'm just the only genius dumb enough to get caught, then."

Number One was insistent. "Enlist. You could be an officer in four years. You could have your own ship in eight."

"Starfleet's just _giving _away ships now?"

She sat down on the foot of the cot. From anyone else, it'd be a comforting gesture. With her, it was like a snake getting closer. "I won't lie to you. The odds are—leaving out a great deal of simplification—fifty/fifty as to you achieving a command. I believe you have greatness in you, a certain quality that Starfleet regulations do not quantify, but that's vital to starship command. Pike had it. Your father had it. And the only way you'll find out if you have it is to actually give a damn about something enough to _care _if you crash and burn. I realize it's a big ask. But even if you don't have it, there is another quality you possess, unspoken, but nonetheless vital to the running of a starship."

"And that would be?"

She took hold of the sheet and pulled back on it, checking his nude body to ensure the autodoc had done its job. "Starship crews are regularly assigned five-year missions in deep space. They're away from their families. Whatever life they encounter may be hostile, if they find anything at all. _Stimulation _must come from within the crew. We do what we can with works of literature, cinema, various games, but what we don't put in the press releases is that Starfleet needs people who are willingly to casually, frequently experiment with multiple partners, maintain an aesthetically pleasing appearance, and display a certain aptitude for enjoyable sexual congress. It's vital to crew morale."

Kirk blinked a couple times. "You're saying you want me to enlist—because I'm a slut?"

"You've been treated for twelve STDs in the last seven years, one of which had never before presented except in a species of _quadrupedal_ sentients."

"I'm a people person?" he tried.

"It's alright. The Academy offers an extensive sex ed course, and every Starfleet officer is provided multiple means of contraceptive." Starting at the collar, she undid her jacket's seam. Underneath, her black undershirt seemed much more hard-pressed to cover her body—particularly at the chest. "Of course, the Academy's enlistment period doesn't start for half a year. I'm sure an intelligent man such as yourself can bring himself up to speed—in fact, I'm sure the co-eds would love to help you with that."

He had to admit, there were worse fates than being trapped on a starship full of sex-hungry crewmates who had all _chosen _to wear uniforms with miniskirts. And he bet starship captains saw more action than chronically unemployed farmboys. "Student morale must be seen to as well," he ventured.

That merited a cool smile from her. "Of course, if I do fast-track you, I'd be staking my reputation on your performance. If you're half the man your father was, that's a safe bet. But still. I'd like assurances." She pulled off her undershirt. Her bra was a bluish green he could really get used to, assuming it was regulation-issue. "Rigorous physical activity will also test how effectively the autodoc has restored you to health."

"Oh yeah. It's gonna be rigorous."

She pushed him back down when he tried to rise up, took off her bra—her breasts were small but pert, firm, almost perfectly globular where they thrust out strongly into the air, like her body was as perfectly regimented as her intellect. On his back, Kirk felt her touch his biceps gingerly, genuinely probing for injuries, then squeezing them firmly. His arms were rock-hard; his cock was headed that direction as well. She slid her hands up to his broad shoulders, then over his hard chest, down his narrow belly. Like a blind woman making a picture of his musculature.

She stopped before she reached his cock. Inside, with a coyness that belied her frozen exterior, she unsnapped her trouser clasp, stepped out of her pants and thong, swung her bare legs over his shoulders. Kirk winced as she sat down on his somewhat tender chest, but forgot all about the discomfort when she bent her legs at the knee, locking them around his head. His face was practically sealed against her moist pussy.

"I trust you can put your phallus into a woman and move it in and out—even a MACO can do that—but performing cunnilingus. That's the kind of thing I expect from officer material."

"Could you stop hitting on me _and _giving me the sales pitch?" he asked. "Just keep it to 'oh god yes' and 'please I need it' until I'm done."

"Give me something to need," she replied crisply.

Kirk leaned forward and hurriedly kissed her cunt. Not a peep from her, but he noticed a slight flutter going through her skin. Good sign. For a few seconds he ran his tongue up and over the lips of her labia, letting her think he was in that for the long haul, but just as she got used to it he snaked his tongue inside to push and probe at the liquid sweetness within. She breathed hard, which he took as another good sign, and so he ran his hands up her body to her breasts, correctly guessing that she'd taken off her uniform top because she liked her tits rubbed and massaged while she was eaten out.

"Good, yes, quite good," Number One said with forced evenness. "Move your tongue—yes—up and down my labia. Lick my clitoris. It's there at the—"

She writhed like a snake, forcefully nonverbal, but keening with lust. He'd found it. First try. He practically tortured her, whipping it with his tongue, then he was back, long, slippery, and hot inside her sex. Finding all the right spots. She pushed her cunt into his face like she wanted to hurt him, taking his tongue even deeper inside. Behind her, she was amused to note that his cock was completely vertical, precum topping it like whipped cream on dessert.

Kirk had no ego about eating out a woman. All part of the service, as he thought. In the years since First Contact, antiquated notions of taking pride in simply penetrating a woman had fallen by the wayside. In 22nd century Earth, a man could only take pride in bringing a woman to orgasm, and Kirk took a great deal of pride.

Ignoring his own hardening need, he abandoned himself to Number One's taste, her scent, her feel. He took long laps at her cunt, heedlessly making noises as he tongued her like a wild animal eating. His lips smacked, his tongue slurped, the sounds made all the more impressive in the vacuum of Number One's silence. The only outward sign of her pleasure was when she fell backward onto the bed. Kirk stayed with her, lips glued to her sex, head nuzzled between her thighs. Then his teeth nipped at her bud—something Number One had previously only experienced with female lovers—and the commodore instinctively rocked her ass up and down to drive herself into his flicking tongue.

Although Kirk generally preferred a loudly vocal orgasm, he was more than appreciative of the long groan and gentle panting that Number One expressed as her sex melted on the tip of her tongue like her body was betraying her control. He slowed his tongue by degrees, licking her wet pussy clean until her breathing had returned to normal. Then he slid over her on the bed, hard cock between her quivering thighs, kissing her to show off the taste of her orgasm.

"Officer in four years, huh?"

She reached down, taking him in her hand and guiding him to her cunt—something he hadn't done for himself. A good sign. He was impetuous, but he could accept orders so long as they got his dick wet. So to speak. "If you apply yourself."

He thrust into her, and took her answering gasp as a very, very good sign. "I'll do it in three."


End file.
